Some nights I lie still
and stare at the ceiling
like it owes me an
answer.
The room holds its
breath. The city outside
doesn't care that I'm
awake. I've reread the
same three messages.
I've rehearsed
conversations that will
never happen. I've
imagined alternate versions
of today where I said
the right thing, or
nothing at all.
Loneliness isn't always
the absence of people.
Sometimes it's sitting
beside someone who can't
see you. Sometimes it's
a full phone with no one
to call. Sometimes it's
this — just you and a
ceiling and the soft hum
of a night that keeps
moving even when you've
stopped.
I pull the blanket
tighter. Not because I'm
cold.
I just needed something
to hold.